


Once Written in the Stars

by DrowningByDegrees



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Temporary Character Death, jaskier loves Geralt before he even really knows what love is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:20:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23955235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningByDegrees/pseuds/DrowningByDegrees
Summary: When Geralt accidentally trespasses on a fae forest, only the unexpected kindness of one of the forest's inhabitants saves him. Unfortunately, it also leaves him saddled with a travel companion who has never really met a human, let alone thought about how to play atbeingone. It goes about as well as you'd think.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 47
Kudos: 322





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In which I play really fast and loose with fairy lore. 
> 
> The song lyrics I borrowed for this are from "Darkness" by Blackmore's Night

It’s only when Geralt sheaths his sword that he realizes his medallion is still humming, perhaps even more than it was before. He squints through the trees, and sees nothing beyond the blanket of buttercups carpeting the forest floor. There’s a lark somewhere in the distance, but nothing near him moves. 

_Buttercups_. He circles back to that, to the bright spring flowers that stretch out into the forest as far as he can see. It’s the end of summer though, where the world goes brown and dry as it waits for relief from the heat to tumble into fall. There’s not something in the woods making the medallion vibrate against his skin Geralt realizes too late. It’s the woods themselves, and perhaps the keepers of it. 

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, hoping he hasn’t gone so far astray that there isn’t a way back. 

So, Geralt walks back in the direction he’s certain he came from, searching for where the flowers fade back into the dirt and twigs he should be finding under his feet. The medallion only thrums more urgently, for so long that it’s eventually just a background sensation as Geralt tries to find his way. 

He passes an old, moss covered tree for what he’s certain is the fourth time and makes himself stop, as if pausing will help him regain his bearings. It doesn’t of course, but somewhere nearby, someone is singing. 

_Somewhere in between the moss and the stone_

_The wind and the wood became my home_

_I layed myself down upon the green_

_when the ivy overgrew I could never leave_

_Something in the darkness pulled me deeper_

_Something in the madness eased my mind_

_Was I awake or was I dreaming_

_Cut the strings that bind me to mankind_

Geralt bristles, starting to reach for his sword, but it’s a stuttered, aborted motion as the melody sinks in. The song is beautiful, he realizes, subtly easing the wariness with which he regards the woods. Perhaps he’ll just listen for a moment, because it’s ever so soothing. When his feet begin to carry him closer, Geralt doesn’t notice. Nothing good lives in a fae forest, something far away in him whispers. He grasps for the truth of that, because it might be important, but it’s so very far away from him now. The sentiment slips uselessly through his fingers like the pleasant spring breeze that ruffles his hair as it blows through the trees. Caution flits somewhere at the periphery, but he can’t pin it down and it’s… unnecessary. There’s no need for caution here, not when the calm sinks right down to his bones. It lulls him until the witcher wants nothing more than to wrap himself up in the music, the world beyond the woods be damned. 

The trees pass by as Geralt ventures deeper into the woods, never catching sight of the mist that swathes him. If anything, it is a caress, an embrace, something that softens the sharp edges of him and blots out the things that keep him up at night. There is a peace here he never knew he wanted, but he _yearns_ for it, to be allowed to keep this thing as he steps into a glade where the sunlight comes through in soft, slanted bars. 

It is there that he sees it, though the creature is tangled up in the shadows where the trees begin again. The claws are the first thing to catch Geralt’s eye, razor sharp and curved like scythes. They’re lost as they fade into sinewy arms, rough and ashen like tree bark on something long since dead. Its limbs come together like twisted vines and branches, framing around its dessicated belly where the thin flesh that stretches across is sunken in. 

This is the thing singing him lullabies, he realizes. The sense of danger claws its way closer to the forefront of his mind, but every inch is a struggle as he tries to remember why this should frighten anyone. Shaking something loose, he slowly cobbles together the sense to draw his sword. 

“Silver? You can’t hurt me with that.” The music has stopped, but the voice is lyrical all the same, pulling Geralt’s gaze upward where the creature looms a bit over him. He hadn’t seen its face before, but it’s no more pleasant than the rest of it. Teeth like long daggers fill up its mouth, pulling it into a sort of rictus grin. Geralt can see patches of ashen skin underneath, crowded in by branches that fan out at grotesque angles, a mockery of antlers. A short ways beneath them, a pair of blue, blue eyes zero in on Geralt, unnaturally luminous. He’s never seen a damned thing like it. 

“I don’t think it’ll tickle,” he grouses, adjusting his stance. It spoke to him though, clearly more than the beast it appears to be, so he doesn’t attack right away. 

“You were lost.” It’s not a question, and Geralt isn’t sure if it’s that or the creature’s utter lack of concern about his weapon that puts him on edge. 

“I wasn’t until you lured me here,” Geralt growls, because if this _is_ going to end up in a fight, he’d just as soon get on with it. 

The creature regards him with a wider smile, probably meant to convey mirth, but mostly only pulling it’s mouth into something more grotesque. It shakes its head, horns catching in the leaves overhead. Worse, the creature _laughs_. “I watched you all afternoon.”

Had it been so long? There is rumor that time moves differently in places like this, but surely it can’t have been hours he’s been here. For the first time, Geralt notices the sunlight has taken on the drippy gold sheen it wears just before dusk begins to settle in, and he curses under his breath. 

“What do you want?” Geralt braces himself, sure he’s not going to like the answer. 

At first, the creature is quiet, it’s expression so twisted that it’s impossible to glean any sense of intention. “No one is meant to survive this place, but....” 

The response covers the obvious, Geralt thinks but does not say. “If you’re waiting for me to beg for my life, you’re going to be very disappointed.” 

“What? No, no, of course not. I want to _help_ you.” Geralt had expected some sort of formality in conversation with the kinds of things that live in a forest like this, not unlike the way conversations go with nobles. The cadence this one keeps to is like an old friend though, casual, friendly even, and it’s all Geralt can do not to be swayed again despite what’s looking at him. Almost too late, Geralt realizes it’s making eye contact, but he cannot look away.

“Don’t _do_ that,” he grits out, and perhaps he’s caught the creature in a good mood because the tug at his emotions and sense of reason dissipates until it has faded to nothing. All at once, Geralt is entirely his own again.

“Of course,” it agrees, stepping through the glade, strangely graceful. Where Geralt expects a lumbering gait, the creature moves like a dancer, eerie in the way it glides to where the witcher stands and then right on past him. “Come along then.” 

“Just like that?” Geralt arches an eyebrow, recognizing following the creature through the woods for the terrible idea it is now that his mind is no longer clouded. Granted, there aren’t a great many options. Besides, it could have forced him or killed him or just left him in the woods, and it had done none of those things. Heaving a sigh and cursing under his breath, Geralt follows.

The creature leads the way, absently dragging its fingers along bark and branches. Geralt isn’t sure if it’s his imagination, but he swears everywhere it touches brightens, as if this monstrous thing is luring the foliage to flourish the way it lured Geralt to stand before it. It must be a fairy, he realizes, its distorted visage the truth that lurks beneath the pretty picture fae paint for men. 

“Do you always hunt monsters? Is it exciting? Do you travel?” the questions come rapidfire, and for something dredged up from someone’s nightmare, it’s shockingly amiable. Chatty too, much to Geralt’s chagrin. The fairy doesn’t actually wait for an answer to any of the things it asks though, before sort of interrupting itself. “I’m being rude. I didn’t even ask. What’s your name?”

Fairies aren’t really monsters, and they mostly keep to themselves, so Geralt isn’t as well versed in their ways as might be useful, but this part he knows. There’s power in a name, and it’s not something he’s keen on handing over to any sort of fae, no matter how friendly it seems. There’s… something about being very careful not to be rude though, he thinks, so Geralt gives it something, a useless moniker as a standup. “You can call me witcher.”

“You really _are_ a monster hunter, then.” If the fairy is put off by Geralt’s answer, it doesn’t show. Quite the contrary. Its mouth pulls wide into the unnatural, sharp edged smile that Geralt is starting to realize is just the fairy’s face and not some kind of threat. And then, perhaps because the name thing doesn’t work in reverse, or because Geralt has misremembered the lore entirely, it replies, “Well, hello then, witcher. I’m Dandelion.”

“ _Dandelion_.” Geralt dubiously repeats, drawing the word out as his gaze sweeps over the fairy from head to toe. If said fairy recognizes that Dandelion is terribly incongruous with his nightmarish countenance, he gives no indication, instead chattering on about something else entirely. He pays little mind when Geralt mostly doesn’t answer, as if the witcher were just an accessory to the fairy’s one sided conversation. 

Geralt feels the change before he sees it, when the muggy summer air begins crowding into the woods’ perpetual spring. By the time the treeline comes into view, the sun has nearly sunk below the horizon, the first stars peeking out where the sky has already gone dark. A tension Geralt hadn’t realized he’d been holding finally eases, as he reaches safety once more. 

“Thank-” Geralt begins, but the look on Dandelion’s face stops him. His face is always somewhat twisted, but even still, there’s no mistaking the anger in the way the fairy’s eyes narrow at him. 

“Don’t. You. Dare.” It comes out far more forcefully than Geralt can imagine there being any call for, and Dandelion punctuates each word with a sharp poke of one clawed finger against the armor in the center of his chest. “Have you no manners at all?”

Belatedly, Geralt thinks he might remember some such thing about thanking fae being rude. Maybe? He can’t really recall because it had never been important, but he holds up his hands placatingly. “I only wanted to convey that I appreciate your help.”

Dandelion lets out an affronted little hmph, but the fairy’s eyes soften around the edges. Geralt can’t help but think he’s narrowly sidestepped something awful. He’s never met another fairy, but he’s heard stories, and never got the impression they were easy to mollify. 

“Why wouldn’t I help? Okay, maybe the others wouldn’t have, but that’s _hardly_ the point. It’s not like you deserved to be stuck there,” Dandelion mutters, clawed hand falling loosely back to his side, leaving Geralt to wonder what metric the fairy was judging that by. 

Eager to put some distance between himself and those cursed woods, Geralt chooses not to give the fairy an opportunity to drag him into further conversation. He offers up a hasty goodbye and turns on his heel to leave. He doesn’t wait for a response, and Dandelion moves so quietly, it’s only the continued thrum of his medallion that gives the fairy away. Bracing himself for what he assumes are going to be far too many words, he looks at Dandelion, “You’re following me. Why?”

“Oh! I can’t go back,” Dandelion says a little too brightly, waving a spindly arm at the meadow stretched out in front of them. “Seems like as good a direction as any.”

“Why can’t you go back?” Geralt hears himself ask, even though he really doesn’t want to know, even though he’s very aware that he’s going to feel obligated to do something once he does know.

Dandelion’s shoulders lift and fall in what Geralt can only assume is an approximation of a shrug. “You break the rules. You leave. Or you die. Really, it happens so rarely I don’t think anyone remembers one way or another, so probably best to decide for them and be on my way.” 

Geralt stops then, because Dandelion appears pretty determined to follow and given how difficult a time he has with humans already, the fairy’s appearance would only make it worse. Dandelion's earlier assertion that no one was meant to survive the woods takes on an entirely different connotation now. It had never been the threat he’d assumed it to be at all. “Why did you help me, then?”

“You were lost.” Under other circumstances, the naive simplicity of that might be endearing. No qualifiers. No caveats. Either Dandelion is terribly manipulative or terribly kind-hearted, and Geralt has an incredibly irritating suspicion that it’s the latter. 

“I’d have found my way.”

Dandelion’s features don’t change much, but the glow of his eyes shifts, taking on a softer cast. “You really wouldn’t have. No one does. That’s the _point_.” 

Geralt wants to argue, but they probably both know better when it comes down to it. Resigning himself to having company at least for the trip into town, Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose. “Have you ever even been out here?”

“Nope.” Dandelion’s tone is far too untroubled for someone who’s just tossed aside their entire life, but the fairy glances away, and for just a moment, Geralt spots the sorrow underneath, no more than one last longing look at the trees behind them. 

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters to himself, already knowing he’s not going to abandon Dandelion out here. Resigned, Geralt gestures at Dandelion’s looming form. “Well, you can’t walk into town like _that_.” 

“Like what?” Dandelion’s head cocks to the side like a curious puppy. A very large, very nightmarish puppy. 

“I’m not sure if you’ve if you’ve seen yourself, but-” That’s as far as Geralt gets before it becomes clear that Dandelion has grasped the issue. Geralt had been looking up at the fairy’s face, so the abrupt disappearance as Dandelion shifts into some hopefully less imposing form throws him off. 

Geralt’s gaze drags downward until he catches the top of a mop of brown hair framing the high cheekbones and soft curves of a startlingly human face. Only Dandelion’s eyes give him away, and even then, only because Geralt knows the blue of them is a touch too vibrant to be normal. Dandelion’s newly human looking mouth turns up pleasantly, a far cry from the jagged teeth from before. Even his clothes are convincing in that they’re bright and eye catching and recognizably human. “Better?” 

“...Better,” Geralt is forced to concede. Pretty, even, if he’s being honest. At least Dandelion hadn’t decided to model this new form after him. Where any of this came from is a revelation Geralt is very, very sure he doesn’t want to partake in.

“Wonderful!” Dandelion claps his very human looking hands together once and sets off in the direction Geralt had been walking. 

And it’s fine, really. He’ll get Dandelion to civilization, where he’s sure the curious fairy will find something other than Geralt to occupy his time. That’ll be the end of it, Geralt decides. It has to be because there’s no place for a fairy at the side of a witcher. 

While he might prod Dandelion for his thoughts on the matter, the fairy is already incessantly chattering about practically everything else. The stars are so bright without the trees in the way. The grass is scratchier out here. Do you ever wear anything other than black? It’s so warm. How does anyone stand it? What’s that, anyway? 

The last in the barrage of commentary and questions is punctuated by slender fingers reaching out to brush over the medallion around Geralt’s neck. Instinctively, his hand shoots up to curl around Dandelion’s wrist and pull it away. “Do _not_.”

“Touchy,” Dandelion complains, rubbing at his wrist when Geralt releases it. The witcher might feel bad if he wasn’t quite certain that the only thing he could possibly have injured is Dandelion’s pride. 

There are a few moments of blessed silence where Dandelion is either sufficiently chastised or maybe just grumpy enough not to keep talking. They’re almost to the road when Geralt realizes another issue and very, very reluctantly speaks up. “What are you going to call yourself?”

“I have a name.” Apparently all is forgiven, because Dandelion’s frown dissipates in favor of open curiosity. 

“You can not go around calling yourself Dandelion if you’re trying to pass yourself off as human.” Before Dandelion can argue, Geralt adds, “And you _are_ passing yourself off as human.”

“Fine.” A frown creases Dandelion’s lips again as he shuffles along beside Geralt. The fairy is blessedly quiet as they reach the road. The village is too far away to see in dark, even for Geralt, but it’s close enough to promise an end to all this nonsense. Geralt doesn’t see the way Dandelion abruptly brightens up, but he hears it. “Buttercup?”

Why did he think this was going to be anything other than thoroughly exasperating? Geralt glances over at Dandelion who, oddly enough, seems very invested in his approval. “That’s not better.” 

“Daffodil? Oh, I don’t like that one. Maybe Peony?” And Dandelion is off again, prattling on about crocuses and tulips and bluebells and… 

“ _Not_ a flower.” Geralt finally cuts in when he can’t tune Dandelion out any longer. 

That quiets Dandelion for the space of a single breath before he’s pressing, “Why not?”

“Because humans would never name someone after most of those,” Geralt forces himself to explain very slowly and very calmly and very much not beginning to lose his temper. It’s only as he realizes Dandelion probably doesn’t have enough context that something like sympathy creeps in around the edges of his irritable mood. “Just pick something else.”

The fairy protests that if he’s giving up the last thing tying him to his old life, he should at least replace it with something good, and Geralt supposes there’s not much to argue with on that front. They go back and forth a great deal before Dandelion finally suggests something that isn’t a flower. “Jaskier?”

“Fine.” Geralt agrees with an exasperated sigh. He’s so grateful that the fairy has finally suggested something that isn’t completely ridiculous that he almost misses the toothy little smile Dandelion… Jaskier gives him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Jaskier sing songs, looking very much like he’s won some game Geralt didn’t even know they were playing. “Nothing at all.”

****

The further they get from the forest, the more aware Dandelion (Jaskier, he reminds himself) is of how horribly uncomfortable it is. The air is too warm and too thick, like tree sap where it sticks to his skin. How does anyone live out here?

He supposes he’s going to find out if he’s meant to make a life beyond the woods, which is fine, really. It’s… fine. It has to be. The only home he’s ever known is no great loss, with the promise of endless adventure stretched out in front of him. It’s what Jaskier tells himself, at least, and he refuses to look back lest the fragile belief crumble. 

After all, if he’s going to follow the witcher, there’s a whole world out there to explore. The man doesn’t appear all that interested in having Jaskier’s company, but that’s not exactly a new experience for the fairy, odd by even fae standards. That will all change, he thinks, when the witcher sees how useful it is to have someone around with magic at their fingertips. Surely, there must be something the witcher wants, if Jaskier can just learn what it is. 

So, he follows at the witcher’s heels, unsure he particularly likes the wide dirt path humans have cut through the wilderness around them. Grass and flowers sprawl as far as the eye can see to either side, but the ground underneath them is hard, even through the soles of his boots. There’s a reason for it, probably, but the sentiment remains all the same. 

Losing interest in the road, Jaskier watches the witcher, silently walking just a bit ahead. He isn’t much of a conversationalist, Jaskier quickly discovers. The fairy tries valiantly, but it’s not until he asks about why the man carries two swords that Jaskier gets more than a vague grunt in response. 

“Silver for monsters. Steel for men.” It’s abrupt and to the point, and then the witcher is silent. 

That seems… extreme. Jaskier has never actually _met_ a human, mind you, but he’s seen a couple from afar. They looked quite fragile in the grand scheme of things, but if someone like the witcher has a weapon dedicated to them, perhaps he’s miscalculated. “Are humans really so dangerous?”

“You can decide that for yourself.” The witcher gestures ahead as they top a hill. Beyond the crest of it lays what must be a human community of some sort. It’s a collection of buildings silhouetted in the dark, yellow light glowing from within some of them. 

Jaskier had somehow expected something more grand. He thinks to ask if all the places humans live are like this, but there’s the slightest dip to the way the witcher carries himself. From everything else he’s seen, it strikes Jaskier that even this very slight show of vulnerability is more than the witcher has allowed, as if there’s just too much exhaustion at this point to hold it all in. So, Jaskier tries to keep his questions to a minimum after that, humming softly as they make their way towards the buildings. 

It’s louder here, though not by much. Somewhere off to Jaskier’s right, there’s the din of a number of conversations happening at the same time, but the witcher keeps walking and so the fairy does too. The road is mostly empty, but there are a couple of people out and about. Jaskier does his best not to stare too openly, but he sees enough to decide none of them are individually that interesting. They’re quiet and plain. Even their clothes are muted. 

By the time Jaskier stops trying to make sense of their surroundings and thinks to break his attempt at silence to ask where they’re going, the witcher has stopped in front of a door. It’s the grandest building Jaskier has seen yet, which really isn’t saying much. All that sets it apart from the rest is some pretty filigree carved around the doors and windows. 

“Don’t say a word,” the witcher insists as he raps his knuckles against the door. Of course, that just brings more questions. Don’t talk to the witcher or to whoever is on the other side of that door? Is this knocking thing some tradition before you walk into a building? Before he can ask anything, the door swings open. 

The man that greets them is nothing at all like the witcher. He’s unpleasant to look at with his beady eyes and beaked nose, and even before he speaks, Jaskier knows his voice will be equally unpleasant. It’s the way he looks at the witcher though, that gets the fairy’s hackles up. He doesn’t know humans, not really, but he knows disdain when he sees it, and that won’t do at all. 

“Witcher,” the man greets, and the tone of it has sealed his fate as far as Jaskier is concerned. Oh sure, the witcher is gruff and not very friendly, but he’s _good_. Jaskier knows that much, even if it’s hard to explain why in words. He’s done nothing to deserve this man speaking to him like they’re less than equals, and yet the witcher wordlessly bears it. 

Is it always like this? Jaskier wonders only briefly before deciding that if it is, it won’t be anymore. Maybe that is the thing he can do to sway the witcher into allowing him to keep following. 

The door opens more widely, and the man hardly spares Jaskier a glance, clearly taking him at face value. That, or he’s too busy watching the witcher’s every move. As if he hasn’t even noticed, the witcher steps past the threshold into the building, Jaskier close behind him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut against the sharp swell of grief, and wonders if this is regret.

“The beast is dead?” Geralt knows what’s coming next, before the alderman even opens his mouth. “Have you proof in exchange for payment?”

“There was a mishap, but it _is_ dead.” Geralt chooses his words carefully, his tone even in the practiced way he talks to men like this. It was always going to be a fight to get the rest of what he’s owed, but now the alderman has ammunition. 

A rather disparaging smile unfurls across the man’s features at Geralt, the kind of expression that had hurt once upon a time. Now it just exhausts the witcher. “Then you won’t mind coming back with its head.” 

It’s not going to happen, of course. Not when said monster’s head is sprawled out with the rest of it on a bed of buttercups in a forest Geralt never plans to go anywhere near again. With a sigh, Geralt prepares to write the contract off as just one more bit of bad luck on what has been an entirely rotten day. 

“C’mon,” he mutters, tilting his head for Jaskier to follow. Only Jaskier isn’t looking at Geralt. The fairy’s gaze is fixed on the squat, sneering alderman, who has gone so far as to make a vaguely shooing motion and is clearly waiting for them to leave. Geralt reaches out, meaning to physically steer Jaskier back out the door, but he sees a flash of something wicked and _knows_. 

“I think you will find,” Jaskier says conversationally, drawing the alderman’s attention, and Geralt immediately winces. 

“Jaskier…” Geralt tries to interrupt, but the fairy proceeds as if he simply hasn’t heard. 

“I _think_ you’ll find,” Jaskier repeats very pointedly now that the alderman’s eyes are locked on his, “that the witcher’s word is more than sufficient. In _fact_ , I imagine you’re quite sorry for being so rude about it. You should probably make it up to him.”

“I’m so sorry.” The alderman immediately stumbles over the words, patting his clothing down frantically for his purse. Instead of counting out the rest of what he owes Geralt, he shoves the whole thing at the witcher. “ _Please_ forgive me.”

“‘S fine,” Geralt mutters, leveling a furious glare at Jaskier as he begins to count out only what he’s owed. Just because the alderman had no qualms about taking advantage doesn’t mean Geralt has any intention of returning the favor. Once he’s pocketed the rest of the money from the contract, he hands the purse back to the alderman and says more sharply, “ _Jaskier_.”

Casually as anything, Jaskier grins at the alderman and releases him. There’s none of the gradual release Jaskier had granted him in the woods. There’s just the alderman abruptly wilting where he stands as Jaskier turns to leave. “Pleasure doing business with you!”

He has the audacity to give a little wave as he steps out into the open air again, Geralt stalking out the door behind him. It’s easy to forget in his aggravation what Jaskier really is underneath the brightly colored silks and cheeky smile, enough that Geralt grabs him by the arm and yanks. Jaskier, of course, doesn’t budge. The smile fades, only to be replaced by what appears to be genuine confusion, and he's no believer, but Melitle help him, it’s going to be a long night. “What?”

“You do _not_ do that,” Geralt growls as he lets go. At least the road in front of the alderman’s home is empty. 

“He’s not like you. He won’t remember.” Jaskier shrugs, taking Geralt’s lack of hold on him as encouragement to keep walking, apparently. It gives Geralt little choice but to stalk alongside him. There’s a thread of something like delight in the fairy's tone as he explains, “He thinks it was all _his_ idea.” 

“That is _not_ the problem.” Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation for what feels like the hundredth time since he met Jaskier. “You can’t just force people to do things.” 

“I didn’t hurt him,” Jaskier protests, and though it’s petulant, pushy even, there’s no missing the doubt creeping into his voice. 

Not for the first time today, Geralt wonders what he could have possibly done so wrong as to deserve this nonsense. He herds the fairy towards the inn, where light and music still spill out through the open door. "Also not the point.” 

“He was _rude_ to you.” Jaskier’s expression screws up in distaste. If it weren’t so infuriating, the realization that the fairy had interfered just to come to his defense would almost be endearing. Almost. 

“Humans do that. Witchers aren’t exactly well liked,” Geralt tries to explain, lest Jaskier decide the suspicious looks they’re about to be subjected to need to be dealt with too. 

“He was going to renege on the deal he made with you.” Jaskier says far more softly, and while Geralt doesn’t really know what the significance of that is, it’s clear there is one. After that, Jaskier is quiet, head bowed in what Geralt assumes is the fairy’s idea of an apology. 

Though he tries very hard to ignore the dejected set of Jaskier’s shoulders, Geralt doesn’t have it in him to be quite so cruel. He grimaces, forcing himself to speak. “It happens. Humans do that too.” 

“Fairies don’t.” The problem is brought into sharp relief, but Geralt has no idea how to fix it. It must be like the thank you thing, Geralt guesses, another odd discrepancy between human and fae sensibilities. It’s a chasm he’s not quite sure how to bridge. Jaskier scuffs at loose dirt and pebbles as they walk, but is otherwise uncomfortably silent. 

Relief is usually the last word Geralt associates with taverns and the people who come with them, but at least it promises some sort of distraction for Jaskier. There’s enough of a crowd that the wary looks his entry prompts are fewer than they might be. 

Fewer is still too much judging by the way Jaskier bristles, and no. No that is not something that’s going to happen again. Not remotely intimidated by the imposing creature that lurks underneath this form Jaskier has made for himself, Geralt herds the fairy straight for the bench at an empty table. “Sit. Leave them alone.” 

“But…” Jaskier starts, but something in Geralt’s expression must give him pause. Holding his hands up, Jaskier slides into one of the seats. “Yes, fine, alright. I’m sitting.” 

\---

Really, he doesn’t know what the big deal was. Jaskier was _helping_. That man had deserved far worse than what he got, by Jaskier’s measure, and it wasn’t as if he’d been hurt anyway. All considered,iIt’s really rather benevolent on Jaskier’s part to have let him off so easy given the way he’d treated the witcher. 

The witcher obviously didn’t agree, so, when Jaskier sees the mistrustful looks the humans direct towards the witcher, the fairy bristles and decides watching them is out of the question. Otherwise he might do something about it, and he’s pretty sure the witcher would appreciate that even less than how he’d solved the problem of the man across the road. Said witcher is at the other side of the room talking to a portly man with hair a far less lovely shade of white than Jaskier’s new friend’s. With the witcher’s back to him, broad shoulders blocking most of the other person, Jaskier can’t make out what’s being said. 

It’s a lack of engagement coupled with the telltale opening notes of a song that draw Jaskier’s attention elsewhere. Music is good, or at least familiar. A tall, slender man stands in the corner of the building, dressed head to toe in bright colors that feel like home when Jaskier looks at them. At the very least, it’s better than all the drab colors everyone else is wearing. There’s an instrument in his hands, almond shaped with a long neck at the end, and Jaskier has never seen one, but the plucked out notes from its strings make him smile. He doesn’t understand humans (or witchers) at _all_ , but a melody runs deeper than all that. 

The voice that accompanies the instrument, Jaskier appreciates less so. It’s unremarkable, wobbling ever so slightly off key, and nothing at all like Jaskier’s kin. Well, that’s disappointing. Jaskier heaves a sigh, and nearly dismisses the man in the corner, except a funny thing happens. Jaskier begins to turn his attention elsewhere when he realizes that while he is not moved, the _humans_ certainly seem to be.

For a while, Jaskier forgets his irritation with the whole lot of them and watches, fascinated by this every day sort of magic the man in the corner seems to have. A bright, lively melody brings an energy to the surface among the patrons that Jaskier can feel from here. They sing along until it’s echoing around Jaskier from all directions, and he thinks the sound of it should be grating, but there’s too much joy in it for him to mind. Briefly, Jaskier’s eyes flick over to the witcher, the only one not singing along. Maybe this doesn’t work on witchers, then. 

Whatever power this is bends in the other direction too. A slowing tempo brings the crowd down with it, until they’re calm and quiet in their seats. Once more, the witcher barely seems to notice. There’s nothing that softens about him as he makes his way back to Jaskier, nothing remotely like the way he’d been tugged along by the music in the woods. So, whatever this human is doing, it can’t be _that_ magical.

Jaskier doesn’t have much of a choice about making a life out here, but the idea of doing it alone is unexpectedly overwhelming, like peering over the edge of a cliff into an empty abyss. The witcher doesn’t seem too keen on company, but he’s the only person Jaskier knows now, so desperate times and all that. Perhaps if Jaskier could make himself useful in ways that didn’t include magicking humans into paying their debts, he’d be allowed to stay. Holding this kind of sway over a crowd seems useful and not entirely unfamiliar. As Jaskier watches the man’s fingers fly over the strings of his instrument the beginnings of a plan take form. 

A heavy thunk pulls Jaskier’s attention to what turns out to be a bowl of sitting in front of him. It’s full of chunks of what look to be vegetables of some sort, maybe meat. It’s all smothered in something dense and maybe liquid. Liquid adjacent? None of it is familiar, so it seems perfectly reasonable to Jaskier that he cocks his head to the side a little as the witcher slides into the bench on the other side of the table. “What is this?”

The witcher doesn’t answer beyond a bemused wrinkle between his brows that’s there and gone so quickly Jaskier almost thinks it’s imagined. 

“You know, I’m never going to know any of this stuff if you don’t tell me,” Jaskier prods. He picks up his spoon and pushes the contents of his bowl around. “Besides, how do you know you haven’t brought me something that’s going to kill me?”

That drags the witcher’s gaze back to Jaskier, though there’s nothing like concern in his expression. There’s only a soft huff of a breath and the witcher arching an eyebrow at Jaskier. “Is it going to kill you?”

“Well, no, but-” Jaskier gets as far as admitting before the witcher very pointedly turns his attention back to whatever they’re eating. 

It’s not bad, actually. Good enough, at least, to keep Jaskier’s focus until his bowl is half empty. He might have finished, except the man he’d been watching has moved closer, and his music is harder to ignore. The fairy grimaces when he aims for a particularly high note and doesn’t quite make it. “Does he _have_ to do that?”

“He’s a bard. That’s what they do,” the witcher mutters between bites. 

“Oh, now you’re answering questions?” The fact that the witcher, who clearly isn’t a fan of conversation, spoke to him at all curls warmly in Jaskier’s chest. “Be that as it may, does he have to be so _bad_ at it?”

There it is, a tiny quirk of the witcher’s mouth. It barely qualifies as a smile, but Jaskier celebrates anyway. It’s much nicer than the grumpy looks he’s been on the receiving end of mostly today. The almost smile fades though, and the witcher’s eyes narrow suspiciously instead. 

“What?” Jaskier asks, but the witcher is watching the bard (there’s a name for people like this, much to the fairy’s delight). Maybe because of the man from before. “I’m not going to make him _stop_. I’m just going to be very… eh, judgy and judge him from here.” 

“None of the stories I’ve heard about fairies make them out to be particularly honest,” the witcher points out, and it’s lucky Jaskier is, well, himself, because that’s just downright offensive and most of his kin are a whole lot bigger on retribution than he is. 

“Well, who is telling the stories?” Jaskier huffs. He doesn’t know people very well, but the little he’s seen so far has given him nothing much to admire about them. “We tell the truth and we keep our word. Both of those things just happen to be, well, a bit up for interpretation sometimes.” 

“Hmm.” 

Jaskier suspects that means something, but he hasn’t figured out how to translate… yet. “You’re going to have to try again. I speak a lot of languages, but ‘hmm’ isn’t one of them.” 

“I thought you never left the forest…” Jaskier is much too pleased that the witcher is speaking at all to be irritated by the insinuation. 

“So what? Just because it left me ignorant of humans’ … social mores doesn’t mean I’m uneducated.” Jaskier gives the witcher a shrewd look across the table. “Besides, people aren’t the only creatures that communicate if you know how to listen.” 

Whatever possessed the witcher to engage in conversation seems to have passed. The next time the witcher speaks to him, their bowls are empty and he’s pushing himself to his feet. “Come on.” 

“Where are we going?” Jaskier asks, but the witcher doesn’t answer. He’s already walking away, so Jaskier slides out of his seat to follow towards the other end of the room and up a staircase.

Like everything else about human dwellings, the stairwell is horribly confining. Maybe the space it lets out into isn’t cramped by human standards, but for someone who has spent lifetimes surrounded by open air, the windowless hallway feels like a prison. That it’s so warm and stuffy makes the whole thing monumentally worse as far as Jaskier is concerned.

The witcher lets Jaskier through one of the doors, into a space that is better, marginally. The furniture is largely foreign to him in design, but their purpose is self-explanatory enough. A seat. A bed of wood and straw and fabric. A window on the far wall, much to Jaskier’s relief. 

“Is this yours?” Jaskier finds himself asking, only realizing now that they’re here that he doesn’t actually know where witchers live. There’s a pack in the corner though, so it seems a reasonable assumption.

“It is tonight,” the witcher replies. He doesn’t look up from his current task of freeing himself from his armor. 

For a little while, that’s all there is, Jaskier hovering near the closed door and the witcher stripping away parts of his attire. With nothing else to pay much mind to, Jaskier’s attention on the witcher is rapt, enough to spot the miniscule shift in his posture, as if he’s just caught onto something. 

“You can stay tonight _if-_ ,” the witcher says. The approach is a new and interesting one coming from the witcher, so Jaskier drifts a little closer and listens to what the “if” is. “-you stop coercing people into doing things.”

Oh that’s clever, Jaskier thinks, the witcher using what little he has learned about fairies and leveraging it to get what he wants. Granted, it entirely hinges on an assumption that Jaskier wants to stay, which… alright, maybe he does, but it’s still a presumptuous sort of leap. 

But then there’s the matter of the deal itself, proof that this isn’t exactly the witcher’s wheelhouse, which is… unexpectedly charming despite all the man’s glowering. It’s rudimentary and easily maneuvered around, so Jaskier offers up a toothy smile as he follows the witcher’s lead and reaches down to take off his boots. “Okay. I promise not to make anyone else here do anything.”

The witcher’s eyes narrow, clearly having caught onto Jaskier’s side step. The corners of his mouth pull down a little, and the silence stretches out long enough that Jaskier starts to think he’s miscalculated, but eventually the witcher just shakes his head in the end. “Fine.” 

It’s a roof over his head that Jaskier really doesn’t need, but it’s also company in the shape of the witcher laying out a bedroll with a terse invitation to ‘just lay down and stop hovering already’. That’s all the conversation the witcher bothers before getting in bed and disappearing from view and snuffing out the candle lighting the room. 

Above him, Jaskier can hear the bed creak under some sort of movement. It’s a welcome reminder that he’s not entirely on his own. This isn’t the most comfortable place he’s ever slept, but it’s not so bad. Sure, the wood that makes up the floor under him and the walls all around probably hasn’t smelled like the forest in ages, but at least it’s not entirely _un_ familiar either. There are really no surroundings that could make the stifling summer air as pleasant as what he’s used to, but Jaskier tries very hard to snuff out the comparison because it’s rather a moot point now, isn’t it? 

Jaskier knows better than to dwell on something his magic cannot repair. Only now the thought is there, a homesick tremble behind his ribcage, and if the witcher isn’t sleeping, he’s trying to, leaving no distraction to speak of. He’d done well shoving the thought away all evening, and he’s trying, he _is_ , but now even the music downstairs is too far and too muted to be more than a backdrop, only just loud enough to remind Jaskier that it isn’t home. 

There’s no sense giving what’s already been done any space in his mind. He knows that, but Jaskier can’t really help himself. At the time, the choice had been so straightforward. The witcher had been trapped, so Jaskier freed him, simple as that. It’s not that it’s a more complicated line of reasoning in the aftermath, but in the silence it’s harder for Jaskier to ignore the price he’s paying. He’s lost his home, his friends (what precious few there were). Even his name is no longer his own. 

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all. Over and over, Jaskier repeats the mantra, even though it slips away from him like the words are slick with oil. He breathes out a quiet shudder, and glances furtively up at the edge of the bed, but there’s no sign of the witcher. Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut against the sharp swell of grief, and wonders if this is regret. 

Except he knows better. It pains him, sure, but Jaskier cannot be sorry for the choice he made. The witcher is no foolhardy human who came traipsing into the woods out of some wretched sense of entitlement. This is someone who, even confronted by human cruelty, let go of an opportunity for reparation that Jaskier had practically pushed into his hands, and took only what he was owed. For all his blustering at Jaskier afterwards, that act tells the fairy everything he needs to know about the witcher. 

He’s terribly lost. He has no place in the world and there’s no telling how tomorrow might go. But Jaskier listens to the steady in and out of the witcher’s breathing and knows he _cannot_ be sorry. He curls into himself on the bedroll, fighting the stubborn way his breath hitches so as not to disturb his sleeping companion. With all the time in the world to reconsider the price, Jaskier knows he would still have paid it. 

\---

Geralt is still groggy when he cracks an eye open to look out at the empty room, and at first he thinks nothing of it. A room to himself isn’t a problem until it occurs to him exactly why it was worth noting in the first place. Suddenly _very_ awake, Geralt sits up, speaking out just to be certain. “Jaskier?”

The empty room does not deign to respond. Not some weird invisible fairy thing, then. Cursing under his breath, Geralt drags himself out of bed, resigned to rushing through pulling himself together. He may as well be on his way anyway now that the contract is done. Humans don’t tend to willingly suffer the unnecessary presence of a witcher for long. 

It occurs to Geralt as he pulls on his boots that logically, this is the best possible scenario. Jaskier left without any coaxing from Geralt. The fairy is far too powerful to actually need protecting, so it’s not as if Geralt is abandoning Jaskier to starve or be cut down by bandits or something. And if Jaskier’s odd behavior reflects on anyone, it won’t be Geralt, who humans already dislike plenty, thank you very much. The best thing, for both of them really, is to go their separate ways. 

The thing is, he already knows that’s not how this is going to go. 

Before he can cobble any real plan together, there’s a knock at the door, which Geralt assumes is probably the innkeeper there to kick him out. Well, no matter. It’s not as if he’d really unpacked before chasing down the contract anyway. Scooping up his things, he strides to the door and pulls it open. “I’m just on my-”

It’s not the innkeeper, but rather his wife, a weary looking woman who hadn’t given him the time of day yesterday. She smiles at him this morning, holding out a plate and a mug. “Thought you might want breakfast.”

“What?” He’s been doing this a while now, and never once has anyone brought him food without motive or expectation of payment. The woman seems not to have either. 

“Breakfast,” the woman repeats as if it’s the word that’s mystifying him and not that she’s doing this in the first place. Her eyes go wide when he doesn’t immediately respond. “Do witchers not eat breakfast? I can pack you something for the road instead if you like.”

“No, this is...,” he hears himself say, because he has _no_ idea what else he's meant to do about it. Reluctantly, he reaches for the dishes. “Thanks.” 

“It’s no trouble at all.” The gesture seems genuine enough, so he takes what she gives him and pushes the door closed with his foot. As far as he can tell, it’s not been tampered with, but still, this never happens. Never once… until now. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls at the empty room. Whatever is done is done though, so Geralt sits back down to eat and hopes the day doesn’t get any weirder than room service.

\---

The day gets weirder than room service. 

He’s left undisturbed, even when the sun climbs high enough that it must be late morning. That’s odd enough all by itself, but then he packs up and heads downstairs. There are a handful of people in the tavern, and that’s where it all goes awry, leaving Geralt wondering if he’s woken in the middle of some fever dream. 

The villagers are kind, unnecessarily so. On the surface that seems like it should be a good thing, but it’s really not. At least when people don’t suddenly decide they like him, they mostly tend to ignore Geralt aside from a suspicious glance here and there. Whatever has possessed them to be so friendly is full of eye contact and small talk and Geralt wants nothing to do with any of it. He tells himself that the brisk pace with which he leaves the tavern isn’t fleeing. He just has a purpose (that purpose is possibly getting away). 

It’s only once he’s outside that Geralt realizes he’s not even sure if Jaskier stuck around. For all he knows, this could be a well intentioned farewell gift gone terribly awry. He scents the air, but everything just smells like people and farm animals. Maybe it’s the universe encouraging him to take the out that’s been offered. The reasonable thing would be to saddle up roach and be on his way, leaving the whole last day or so behind him. 

Only, Geralt is too observant for his own good, and just as he’s about to concede to reason, his eyes settle on the long, overgrown grass along the side of the tavern. It’s long since tried out, brown with too much heat and too little rain, except for a vibrant green tuft couched in the middle of it all. A little ways off, there is another and another, leading back the way they’d come the night before. 

Honestly, Geralt isn’t sure if he’s more annoyed by the fact that Jaskier thought to lure him out like this or that he’s following the path the fairy set out, neither of which stops him from putting one foot in front of the other. It’s not that he cares. Of course it’s not that. It’s just that it would be irresponsible to leave without warning the fairy off whatever nonsense he’s gotten up to this time. 

Geralt follows the path out into a meadow that’s just as leeched of color as everything else, caught in limbo between death and decay. Among it all, there’s a path leading to an ancient looking tree, the leaves of its sprawling branches still defiantly bright. 

Jaskier leans against the trunk of it, plucking at the strings of a lute Geralt is very certain he doesn’t want to know the origin of. They’re really going to have to talk about being a little bit less obvious, because spread out around him, nestled in the muted sandy color the rest of the meadow has taken on, the ground is full of life. Among the blades of bright green grass, flowers poke out in search of the sunlight. 

There’s no telling if Jaskier doesn’t know or just doesn’t care that that is not an ordinary thing for a human to do. Come to think of it, Geralt doesn’t even know if it’s something Jaskier can help. If the fairy even notices what he’s done, he ignores it in favor of flashing the witcher a pleasant smile. 

“I thought fairies don’t renege on deals,” Geralt says, when he’s close enough to speak. He has a reason for being here. Obviously. 

Whatever Geralt expected, it’s not the genuinely confused scrunch of Jaskier’s brows. “I promise you I didn’t.” 

“The innkeeper’s wife brought me breakfast,” Geralt points out, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Oddly, that doesn’t seem to have cleared anything up. Jaskier squints up at Geralt. “Did she? That’s nice of her… I think. Is that supposed to happen?” 

“Jaskier.” The name comes out on a low growl, and Jaskier’s fingers still on his lute strings. 

“Wait. You thought I-” Jaskier’s face abruptly screws up like he’s wounded, and Geralt’s stomach twists uncomfortably. He’s not going to feel guilty about holding the fairy accountable. He’s _not_.

“I didn’t make her do that. I didn’t even _ask_ her to.” It comes out like a plea, though Geralt isn’t sure what Jaskier wants from him. “We had a deal.”

The worst of it is, regardless of what it looks like, Geralt already knows he believes Jaskier. The fairy might be coy about his behavior, but he hasn’t lied, and the witcher can’t think of any reason it would start here. Geralt uncrosses his arms in favor of scrubbing a hand over his face. “Fine. Well, whatever it was you did. Don’t.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific…” At first, Geralt thinks Jaskier is toying with him, but there’s that confused expression again. This would be so much simpler if Geralt could just be irritated without feeling kind of guilty over it. 

“Whatever is making people… like that.” It’s only as he’s trying to explain that Geralt realizes there’s no way to tell Jaskier to stop convincing people to be nice to him without sounding daft. “It’s better that we don’t draw attention to ourselves.” 

“We?” Leave it to Jaskier to glomp on to that of everything, derailing the conversation entirely. 

“No.” Geralt answers the question Jaskier doesn’t ask with anything more than a hopeful expression that falls the moment the witcher opens his mouth. He is absolutely not getting caught up in this. He’s not. Even if someone figured Jaskier out, what could they possibly do to him?

“Right, yeah, okay.” Jaskier’s teeth scrape over his bottom lip, but he doesn’t argue. He only gestures a hand vaguely at the village. “Thanks.” 

“I travel alone,” Geralt offers up an explanation he doesn’t owe, and Jaskier nods like he already knows. 

“Sure. I know. See you around, witcher.” Jaskier waves him off with a smile that’s too bright and too brittle, and looks away quickly enough that Geralt can pretend not to have seen, even though the regret is already beginning to prod at him. He hasn’t ever had a travel companion on the Path before, and he’s not about to start now. 

Geralt makes it as far as the stable, still trying to convince himself he’s done the right thing. Jaskier doesn’t seem to know much of the continent, but he’s hardly helpless. There are things he is made for. Helping a lost fairy put down roots somewhere is not one of them. 

It’s not his problem. Geralt reminds himself as he saddles Roach. It’s not his problem. He tells himself again as he packs away his belongings. It’s not his problem, he insists, as he swings himself into the saddle and heads right back to where Jaskier was sitting. 

Just until Jaskier knows his way around a little better. Geralt braces himself for the nonstop chatter he knows he’s about to commit to. No matter how grating it is, it still sits better with him than abandoning someone who is only in this mess because they helped _him_.

Whatever Geralt’s intent, it turns out it really isn’t his problem, because the meadow is empty. There’s no sign of him down the road as far as Geralt can see, even though there aren’t many places to go. Any hope of tracking him is lost in the smothering heat, Geralt is eventually forced to concede. 

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters to no one in particular, for all the good it does. Jaskier looks to be well and truly gone, leaving behind only a swathe of green grass and buttercups. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a point of note, I'm very aware of the potential hypocrisy of Geralt giving Jaskier what for over the mind control bit. It gets addressed later on.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s not as if Jaskier had expected the witcher to keep him company, exactly. Guiding the man out of the woods had been a gift, and demanding any sort of repayment would have made it transactional, perhaps even more so than the witcher’s attempt to thank Jaskier for it afterwards. Both run counter to everything the fairy is. Continuing on his own isn’t exactly preferable, but he won’t begrudge the witcher a choice in the matter. Even if the quiet is more palpable without a taciturn traveling companion to blame it on.

Besides, he’s lonely, but Jaskier doesn’t feel anything like helpless. Unfamiliar surroundings are an inconvenience more than a real danger. He could live here, he thinks, out in the wild. There are places, surely, where humans don’t venture, and if Jaskier wants, he can take back what remains of himself. He doesn’t think he will, but he could, and that’s some kind of agency, isn’t it?

This isolation is only _temporary_. There’s a wide world stretched out in every direction and the witcher is hardly the only person in it. Jaskier doesn’t know the rest of the continent any better than he does the village he’s come from, but that just means any path he takes will be an adventure. It doesn’t hold the promise he thinks it ought to, but Jaskier resolutely puts one foot in front of the other.

The heat of the day before creeps in, and though Jaskier was perfectly comfortable in the beginning, the air soon feels like it means to smother him. It’s nothing at all like home. Jaskier glares at the sky like it’s out to get him personally, and trudges along, annoyed by the way his chemise clings to his skin under his doublet. He could travel some other way or take some other shape, but that is just _besides_ the point.

There’s no one to complain to, so Jaskier mostly keeps his grumbling to a silent, internal narrative. It probably doesn’t matter since there’s no one around to hear him anyway. Another hour in, it finally occurs to Jaskier that he has no idea how far human villages tend to be from each other. It’s too late now, but he makes a note to ask for a map or something if he ever reaches people again. 

He’d probably have accepted any excuse to take a break, but the rush of a stream has Jaskier immediately veering his merry way off course. It isn’t all that far anyway, and there’s a patch of grass among the trees that seems like a perfect place to take a drink and sit down for a minute. Or maybe to nap away this dreadfully unpleasant weather. Definitely that one.

***

“Jaskier?” Better self preservation skills might have made the fairy startle at the interruption, but Jaskier’s instincts are heavily shaped by usually being the most dangerous thing in any given space. He barely even registers that someone is there, talking, saying a name that isn’t his enough yet to register as a greeting. Not, at least, until that someone ventures closer, boots scuffing against the dirt, tailed by a rhythmic clopping sound. “Dandelion?” 

Jaskier hums a vague acknowledgement when he realizes who’s his unanticipated company is, and can’t be bothered to look up. “Witcher? What are you doing here?” 

“You left and… This is the direction the road goes.” It’s a non answer if Jaskier has ever heard one, but that’s okay. It gives the fairy something to go on, at least, that this wasn’t some sort of awkward accident. 

“You didn’t want company,” Jaskier points out, and he does look up then, but where he expects to see the witcher’s face, he’s met instead with the witcher’s other traveling companion. “You have a horse. You didn’t tell me you have a horse.”

“I didn’t realize we’d progressed to the ‘I have a horse’ level of acquaintance,” the witcher replies, leaving Jaskier only barely containing an unexpected bark of laughter. It’s a minor miracle he manages to school his expression into something neutral long enough to prompt the witcher to add, “I was joking.”

“Were you?” Jaskier’s brows raise in a mimicry of shock. “I didn’t know you were capable of it.”

“You’ve known me for one day, Jaskier.” 

“Yes and the only time your face wasn’t some variation of grumpy was when you were sleeping.” Jaskier taps his nose thoughtfully. “Actually, I’m not even sure about that. You might look grumpy when you’re sleeping. I didn’t think to look.” 

The witcher sucks in a breath. It escapes back out in a heavy sigh. “...Is this how things are going to be?” 

Jaskier’s nose scrunches in confusion, and he idly wonders if the witcher is standing where he is on purpose, because looking at him puts the sun right in the fairy’s eyes. “What things?”

“Traveling together.” The words come out tightly, enough that Jaskier is almost sorry for the witcher’s discomfort. Almost. 

“Since when are we traveling together?” Jaskier perhaps undercuts the suspicion he means to project by virtue of getting to his feet as he’s asking. 

“You wanted to.” 

“You didn’t,” Jaskier points out, though now, in the midst of this stilted exchange, he’s not so sure it’s as simple as the witcher actually wanting to be alone. 

“I didn’t mean that.” There’s a nearly imperceptible tug at the corner of the witcher’s mouth. Jaskier can’t decide if it’s guilt over the lie he’s just spouted or guilt for the way they parted ways to begin with. 

It doesn’t matter, Jaskier decides, recognizing it for the peace offering it is. He circles around so he can look at the witcher without the sun in his face. “You did, but that’s alright.”

“Hmm.” The lack of response is a clear end to the conversation, or at least an end to the witcher willingly contributing to it. And yet, he stays put, as clear an invitation to come along as Jaskier is likely to get. 

“Yes, fine. I’m coming.” Jaskier falls into step beside the witcher and his horse, wondering idly if the miserable weather is why she’s being led and not ridden. Either way, she’s lovely in the way that all creatures are to Jaskier, and he says as much, reaching out to pet her. 

“ _Don’t_. She-” the witcher warns, though it comes too late, as Jaskier’s fingers are already brushing over the soft velvet of her muzzle. “-bites.”

The horse does no such thing. If anything, she nudges into Jaskier’s palm, seeking out the contact. He’d expected nothing else, but it still leaves Jaskier unreasonably please. He flashes a broad smile at Geralt. “What was that?”

“Hmm.”

That, as far as the fairy can tell, is the end of that. Jaskier makes a couple of attempts at conversation, but it appears the witcher has met his quota for the day. He barely glances in Jaskier’s direction, and he certainly doesn’t say anything. Not even when Jaskier parrots back, “Is this how things are going to be?”

The witcher’s horse whickers, and Jaskier is quick to grasp the opportunity presented. “She says you’re grumpy and you could stand to smile more.”

“She didn’t.” The witcher is still looking ahead, but Jaskier spots the faint twitch that belies his amusement. “You’re not trying to convince me you can understand her.” 

Jaskier huffs out a laugh, pleased to have gotten the witcher talking again, at least a tiny bit. There’s something decidedly enjoyable about the gravely sound of the witcher’s voice, and it seems a shame he doesn’t use it more. “Are you so certain I don’t?”

All Jaskier gets for his trouble is a very pointed sigh, but it doesn’t deter the fairy in the slightest. He lets his gaze linger on the witcher a moment longer before turning his attention to the road ahead. It stretches out what looks like forever, but where it was a little daunting all alone, now it feels full of promise and adventure. 

It’s the best version of events, a fascinating instrument strapped to his back, and even more fascinating companion at his side. Two, he supposes, if you count the horse. He’s always had a penchant for the grandiose, and so it’s with all the gravity Jaskier can muster that he decides this is the beginning of the rest of his life. 

***

Jaskier never does give a straight answer about the talking to animals bit. Worse than that, the claim is not at all isolated. Jaskier spends the rest of their journey trying to convince Geralt he can do all sorts of absurd things. Fairies never really came up in training aside from a vague suggestion to steer clear of their mischief, and so Geralt isn’t confident enough in his own knowledge to guess at what’s real and what is, well, Jaskier’s particular brand of mischief. 

By the time they reach the next village, Jaskier has claimed to be able to: 

* Talk to Roach

* Pick up the boulder they pass by that is nearly as tall as Geralt.

* Reincarnate so he can bother Geralt all over again if he happens to die. (Which “hardly ever happens to him” whatever _that_ means.)

* Read minds, but possibly not Geralt’s because witchers feel different, so he hasn’t tried, and, “that does not look like an invitation to try kind of face” (He’s right)

* Make sure the innkeeper’s wife who was nice to Geralt that morning has a nice day. Every day. (The fact that Jaskier describes this as an ability is weirdly ominous)

* Make the alderman who was rude to Geralt have the sort of luck where he mysteriously trips over himself. Or the furniture. Or the chamberpot. Or… (Geralt stops listening while Jaskier offers up an entire sublist of things the alderman could trip over)

* Trap bandits in vines if they were to run into them (which he stresses makes him a great travel companion)

* Keep Geralt company in his dreams (Geralt makes sure he knows he’s _not_ invited. Just in case that one’s an actual thing.)

* Make people see things that aren’t real.

* Lay claim to someone if given their name (Which he insists he doesn’t do. It’s just that he _could_. Geralt is still relieved to have not given his up just yet.)

* Heal... things (He doesn’t seem clear enough on it himself to be anything more than frustratingly vague.)

Geralt knows at least some of it is true. After all, he’s seen the evidence. But the witcher’s attempts to sort out what is from what isn’t all net him the same small, cryptic smile from Jaskier. Menace that he is, he’s clearly enjoying the confusion he’s causing. 

As impossible as it is to ignore Jaskier’s presence, Geralt’s routine when he gets into town doesn’t change all that much. He sees to getting Roach stabled. He checks the message board. He ventures into the inn in hopes that this one will rent him a room. 

That is, of course, when things get weird. Everything gets weird with Jaskier involved, Geralt is coming to realize. He’s barely through the door when the innkeeper spots him, and she flashes a smile. A real smile. The kind strangers might give to other humans, but never to witchers. It’s followed by an unfailingly friendly exchange that leaves him with the promise of dinner and a place to sleep for a pittance. 

None of it makes sense, so, despite their earlier conversation, Geralt still corners Jaskier when they’re safely ensconced in their room. “Did you do that?”

Jaskier’s expression immediately sours at what probably sounds like an accusation, but he doesn’t snap, even though Geralt knows he might have earned it. The fairy only wets his lips, his words chosen with obvious care. “Did I do _what_ exactly?”

_People are being nice to me again_ sounds absurd, even in Geralt’s head, so he only gestures vaguely towards the door and hopes Jaskier will get it. 

“The innkeeper?” This is the part, Geralt thinks, where he finally earns Jaskier’s vitriol, because there’s no overlooking the insinuation that the fairy hasn’t kept his word. Jaskier opens and closes his mouth a few times, but nothing particularly angry comes out. “I did not... make her be nice to you.” 

Geralt hadn’t really anticipated a cagey response, but it’s far better than an angry or offended one. Some of the tension eases, enough for Geralt to arch a brow at the fairy. “But, you did something.” 

Jaskier’s shoulders rise and fall, his gaze theatrically innocent. “I got here the same time you did. What is it you think I’ve done?” 

There’s no explaining what he thinks without sounding completely ridiculous, and Jaskier bites his lip on a cheeky smile as he watches Geralt fight with it for a minute. In the end, the witcher just sighs. “This isn’t over.”

“Did you just threaten me with conversation? You do know how threats actually work, right?” Jaskier’s smile broadens into something thoroughly gleeful. He’s not supposed to be gleeful. He’s supposed to be chastised or something, but there Jaskier is, mouth turned up shamelessly at the corners, and Geralt can’t call the expression anything else. 

It feels like a trap, though Geralt is reasonably certain the only potential casualty is his pride. He sidesteps it anyway, scowling at the fairy. “Hmm.” 

“I don’t think that ‘hmm’ means the same thing it did last time. Or the one before that, come to think of it. Do you, by any chance, have a primer?” 

Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s brought this on himself, he knows, and bemoans the crisis of conscience made him amenable to traveling together. “I have a contract. I will be back. Stay. Here.” 

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Jaskier calls after Geralt leaving him to stiffen midstep. He racks his brain trying to think what he might have somehow traded away. Turning to look at the fairy only affirms that Jaskier is going to be no help at all, given the casual waving off gesture he directs at Geralt. “So long, witcher.”

***

In Geralt’s absence, Jaskier immediately decides that “here” refers to the whole inn, so it’s definitely not breaking his word to gather up his lute and leave the cramped little bedroom they’ve been put up in. It’s not as if he means to go anywhere anyway. He’s chosen a life to lead, and it seems like it should be less nerve wracking without the witcher around to judge his performance. 

Jaskier gets all the way down the stairs before he starts to second guess himself. The room is large and there aren’t a _lot_ of people, but there are enough. Much like the last inn, there’s a conspicuously empty spot in the corner where he could probably stand and play. There’s no one in it, so really, it may as well be him. 

Except, as Jaskier moves in that direction, it occurs to him that he knows as much about humans as the witcher does about fairies. Is there some kind of etiquette? He’d watched the bard play, but hadn’t actually seen how it started, and though he knows it’s absurd, he’s half afraid that if he does this wrong, he’ll be found out for what he really is. 

Two steps from the open spot on the floor, Jaskier veers off course towards the bar. It’s safer. This is a normal human person thing to do. Patrons come and go, and it takes no time at all to hear someone place an order he can easily mimic. Before he knows it, the innkeeper is setting down a mug in front of him, a smile he can’t quite place flitting across her lips.

He still feels like an imposter, sitting at the bar with his hands curled around the mug like it can somehow shield him, so he distracts himself by guzzling down some of its contents. Ale is very definitely not a favorite to begin with and this is… well he’s really not sure why someone would pay for the dubious privilege of consuming it. No one else’s face is doing the thing his keeps trying to do though, so maybe it tastes different to humans, and Jaskier is briefly dismayed because he hadn’t considered that. He can’t convince anyone he’s human if he doesn’t even know how to respond like one. 

Only the fact that fleeing seems like it might be more suspicious keeps Jaskier from doing precisely that. He holds his mug to be doing something, but doesn’t drink any more. There are people around him, but no one is paying him and the mug he’s nearly dented clutching too tightly. In an effort to soothe his own nerves, Jaskier decides he’s on a reconnaissance mission. If he wants to play at being human, it’s probably best to know what they’re like, so he sits and he listens to the people nearby. 

Human conversation, as far as Jaskier can tell, is absurdly boring. They talk about crops and animals and local gossip, and not a whit of it is of any interest to the fairy. Not for the first time, Jaskier is glad he ended up with the witcher, who doesn’t talk about… much of anything actually, but at least when he does bother to say something, it matters. Silence seems far better than this drivel.

He’s so caught up in said drivel that he doesn’t realize he’s captured the innkeeper’s attention until she speaks to him. “You going to be in town long?”

“Wh-what?” Jaskier nearly jumps out of his seat, and he thinks surely he’s given himself away now, but there’s nothing more threatening than mild amusement creeping across her features. “Oh, just passing through. Whenever my friend is ready to move on, I guess.” 

It’s not a lie, and while he’s not sure he’s said the right thing, judging from her response, he hasn’t said the wrong thing either. “The witcher? That must be exciting. Do you write songs about your adventures?”

“Oh it is,” Jaskier agrees, and that’s true too. In the last day he’s been exiled from his home, gotten a new name and a new job, and has not the _slightest_ idea where he even is. But if she probably thinks he’s talking about traveling around with someone who slays monsters in general, that isn’t his fault. The question seems weird until he remembers he’s supposed to be a bard. Do they write songs? He supposes they probably do. The fairy winces internally as he hears himself stumble over an explanation. “Well, no. Not yet, anyway. I’m just waiting for the… the right inspiration.” 

“Well, if _inspiration_ is what you’re after-” The innkeeper sets down another mug Jaskier doesn’t remember asking for, heedless of the fact that the one he has is still mostly full. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even catch your name.”

“Jaskier,” the fairy answers absently, because it’s never been a thing to fear, giving his name away to creatures who cannot harm him. He’s more interested in trying to make sense of why she’s leaning so close across the counter. Her hair smells nice, warm and slightly sweet in stark contrast to most everything else in the inn. 

“Lareine.” Jaskier sucks in a breath in spite of himself, mystified by this human custom of giving oneself away so casually. He won’t use it, but he could, and the power she’s handed him shivers right down Jaskier’s spine and settles in his belly. Surrender, however unintentional, is unfairly intoxicating. 

“Lareine,” Jaskier says back, tasting the syllables in his mouth. They leave an itch under his skin that he squirms to be rid of, and for a fleeting moment he wonders if this is what it would be like for the witcher to give up his name. Realizing he’s lingered on that thought too long, he rushes to add, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

Unfamiliar as Jaskier is with humans, he’s no fool and he’s hardly innocent. He knows exactly what to make of her heavy gaze and faintly parted lips. The expression is one that’s largely universal. Suddenly, the leaning in thing makes far more sense. It means he’s chosen his form well, Jaskier supposes, because it’s certainly not an interest in his haphazard attempts at conversation that inspires her to invite him to come find her later. 

“Later,” he echoes, with no real intent one way or the other. On the bright side, it’s a new thing to be twisted up in knots over, until venturing out onto the floor sounds less stressful than staying put. He leaves her with a smile meant to mask his nerves, scooping up his lute and settling in the open spot he’d spied in the corner. 

Still, no one is paying him any attention. That’s alright. It’s good, in fact, because no one takes any note of the time he takes to gently lift the instrument out of its case, forcing his breathing into a calm, even cadence. There’s no reason for anyone to think he’s something other than what he looks like, Jaskier reminds himself, and that’s enough to get him to cradle the instrument comfortably in his arms while he picks out a song. 

By the time it occurs to him that maybe there’s some etiquette around this, perhaps he should have asked, Jaskier has already begun playing. And at first, nothing changes. Jaskier plucks out notes on the strings and the inn patrons continue their quiet conversations, leaving him to wonder if he’s doing this all wrong. For all his bright colors and crisp, clear music, Jaskier feels strangely invisible. At least until he opens his mouth. 

It happens in fits and starts, not so differently from what he’d observed the night before. Jaskier sings and little by little the conversation around him dies away. Little by little the mood shifts, and it leaves the fairy breathless. There is no magic in this at all. However easily he could lean on his powers, he doesn’t feel any need to. He has them all anyway, ensnared in nothing more than a pleasant melody. 

Jaskier moves effortlessly between joy and melancholy, enthralled by the way the people blindly follow. The life he gave up seems so far away just now, a small sacrifice in the face of what he finds here. He melts into it with an easy sort of grace until he’s moving among a crowd who seem only too happy to welcome him, and as Jaskier flits from one melody to the next, it’s a simple thing to pretend he’s never been anything at all but this.

***

The contract goes fine as much as they ever do, no more or less exciting than any other. Geralt goes through the motions with practiced ease, and soon, he’s headed back to town, griffin head dangling from his hand by its mane. The sky is still gray with the last vestiges of twilight only the distant chirp of crickets invading the silence he finds out here. 

He’s only just reached town, still down the road from the inn when he hears it, distant and muffled under the crunch of his boots against gravel. 

_Something in the darkness pulled me deeper_

_Something in the madness eased my mind_

_Was I awake or was I dreaming_

_Cut the strings that bind me to mankind_

The memory is more physical than anything else, the echo of an irresistible pull of it he’d helplessly melted into. To Geralt’s horror, he realizes he’s supplanted his lack of knowledge about fairies with the things Jaskier has told him to be true. There’s no real certainty that Jaskier’s odd sense of honor is genuine or that this whole thing hadn’t been some kind of ploy. Caught up in dread that he might have unleashed something terrible on this village, Geralt tears down the street and through the yard, sliding through the open door when he reaches it. 

All is exactly as it should be, to Geralt’s relief and chagrin. The innkeeper is still behind the bar. Conversation continues at some tables. Jaskier plays in the corner, with an audience gathered around, just the way they might for any other particularly good bard. The tension coiled in his shoulders releases in increments as Geralt takes in the reality of the situation. 

He hopes Jaskier truly cannot read his mind lest the fairy realize the unfair suspicion he was caught up in. And truly it _is_ unfair. Jaskier’s voice is warm and alluring, but it’s readily apparent that there is no magic in it. People clearly recognize that Jaskier is easy on the eyes and even easier on the ears, but there are no strings drawing them in. He looks, admittedly, like exactly what he’s trying to be, which is entirely the point. 

Geralt means to slip away, but Jaskier chooses just then to look up. Perhaps he can read minds after all. Or maybe not, because his eyes scrunch at the corners, giving away the smile he’s trying to sing around. He beckons Geralt with a brief wave in a moment where his fingers aren’t plucking at the strings of his lute. 

Geralt has never met anyone who seems so unfailingly pleased to see him, and the witcher doesn’t have the foggiest idea what to do with it except to tell himself it’s only a passing fascination on the fairy’s part. He shakes his head and holds up the griffin head in lieu of shouting across the inn that he’s got somewhere to be. It’s only once he’s done it that he realizes waving disembodied body parts around about isn’t exactly an endearing thing to do. At least the blood has long since drained away, so it isn’t _leaking_. Before anyone can say a word about it, Geralt slips out the door again to collect his pay. Perhaps also to collect himself. 

***

The music has stopped when Geralt returns and Jaskier has tucked himself away at a table in the corner with what looks to be dinner. It strikes Geralt as presumptuous on the fairy’s part that there’s a second bowl and tankard already set out in the empty space across from him. It doesn’t stop Geralt from taking up residence there, but he punctuates the movement with a glower at Jaskier that he hopes gets the point across. 

Judging by the way Jaskier grins at Geralt, he does not get the point across. Sighing through his nose, Geralt tries very hard to ignore Jaskier, but the fairy is right there at the edge of his vision even when he doesn’t look up, practically vibrating like an excitable puppy until the witcher gives up. He regrets asking even before he’s finished speaking. “Have a good time?”

“The best,” Jaskier says immediately, like the words had been threatening to burst free whether Geralt asked for them or not. Spoon still clutched in one hand, Jaskier gestures dramatically. “Witcher, I have found my calling.”

In Jaskier’s defense, it did seem like a good fit, not that Geralt had any intention of saying so. He allows a noncommittal hum and no more, and it doesn’t really matter because Jaskier is going on about something or other, not paying much mind at all to whether Geralt is listening. 

“It’s just, I know there’s no place for me out here.” Jaskier’s volume lowers to a hushed thing, nearly lost in the ambient sounds of conversation around them, and the difference is enough to snag Geralt’s attention once more. He knows that feeling after a fashion. He’d like to tell Jaskier it isn’t true, but platitudes are of no use to either of them. He could sympathize, but comfort isn’t something Geralt is built for, and the attempt feels too wide a chasm to cross. 

“So-” Jaskier claps his hands together, unknowingly making the choice for Geralt. The fairy abruptly brightens in a way that Geralt doesn’t really buy. He doesn’t call Jaskier on the fabricated nature of it either. There’s no point when he has no comfort and no alternative to offer. “I’ve got to be someone else, and this… this fits. I can be this.” 

“Just so long as you stay out of trouble,” Geralt grumbles from behind the tankard he’s brought to his lips. 

“I wasn’t causing trouble. They liked it. They paid me for it even.” Jaskier waves a jingling drawstring bag at Geralt to prove his point. If he’s at all put out by the flat look Geralt gives him, Jaskier certainly doesn’t show it. He barely even takes a breath to make room for Geralt’s input (not that the witcher is giving him any) in between carrying on about how he should maybe learn some human songs, or maybe write something new, and maybe could they stop for supplies before they move on because he’s never _tried_ to write a song, but he would very much like to. 

Geralt lets it wash over him. While the chatter isn’t his first choice of ways to spend an evening, Jaskier’s enthusiasm isn’t exactly unpleasant. Asking him to put a cork in it is a useless endeavor, so Geralt drinks and waits for Jaskier to talk himself out or… something. 

“What do you like to do? When you’re not, you know, witchering or whatever.” Very suddenly, Jasker’s attention is on Geralt, overwhelming in its focus. In all the years he’s been on the Path, no one has ever asked him that, but here Jaskier is, leaning in sightly across the table like he’s waiting for Geralt to share a secret. 

“You’re looking at it,” Geralt says gruffly, at a loss for anything better to fill in the blank with. There’s a lingering quality to Jaskier’s gaze, an unabashed curiosity that shivers unexpectedly down Geralt’s spine. He covers it up with a scowl at the fairy. “With less company.” 

“That last bit is a given,” Jaskier points out, mouth ticking up a little in a lopsided smile. He turns away briefly, looking at one of the other patrons, or maybe the innkeeper, and for a second Geralt thinks he’s taken this as a cue to leave. It’s a fleeting thing though, before his eyes are on Geralt again. “At least you’re consistent.” 

“Hmm.” Geralt commits all of his attention draining the rest of his ale. 

“That’s a new one. Are you sure you don’t have a primer?” 

***

The evening passes without incident. Jaskier flits off to play a little longer, and though Geralt doesn’t exactly mean to, he sticks around and listens. It’s a little bit clearer in the midst of conversation or when the fairy does something that disturbs his medallion, but like this, Geralt realizes, he’d never know Jaskier was anything other than human. 

By the time Geralt decides he’s run out of good reasons to stay downstairs, Jaskier is packing up anyway, still unfathomably bright eyed and full of energy. He spares the fairy a passing glance and is granted a pleased smile for it. Heading off any other mischief Jaskier might have in mind, he grumbles. “I’m going to sleep.” 

“...Yes? Why else would someone sequester themselves in a bedroom when they could be out here?” Geralt looks over in time to see Jaskier’s mouth twitching with the urge not to laugh, probably internally answering his own question, but fortunately for both their sakes, he doesn’t opt to put any of those other reasons into words. 

He doesn’t say much of anything else as he takes it upon himself to follow the witcher to bed. Except to thank Geralt for sticking around. And to ask what Geralt thought of his performance. And to muse about the differences between human and fairy furniture. And to apologize when he finally notices the sour look Geralt gives him over his inability to shut up for two minutes. And to immediately undermine said apology. 

“Don’t give me that look.” Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice his own petulance. “Someone’s gotta carry the conversation. You don’t say _anything_.” 

“You don’t ask.” Geralt regrets it immediately. There’s some small truth to it, but if Geralt is being charitable, he knows it’s mostly because Jaskier’s attempts to learn more about him are mostly deflected. 

True or not, Jaskier’s teeth click as he shuts his mouth, and the space between his brows crinkles a little. Silence falls between them, long enough to get in bed and put out the light. He’s just beginning to fall asleep when Jaskier breaks it. 

“I’m asking now” Jaskier murmurs, barely more than a whisper in the dark. Geralt can feel a faint tug at his mind, but it quickly dissipates like compelling conversation is a reflex. Maybe it is. 

Geralt groans at the ceiling, but he quickly decides that answering will probably be less annoying than trying to convince the fairy to stop talking again. When Geralt turns his head to look at the other bed, Jaskier is staring curiously back. His eyes glow faintly, eerie and so, so blue, even in the dark. No one has given him any strange looks though, so Geralt wonders idly what humans see. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything. You’re the first witcher I’ve ever met.” Usually there’s something grotesque about the curiosity directed at Geralt, a sick fascination. It comes with a footnote that he’s been deemed inhuman. This is the first time the question has carried a sense of wonder. When Geralt picks out Jaskier with his jaw resting against his knuckles, he only looks like someone wanting to know more about a person they’re interested in. 

“I might be the only one you meet. There aren’t many of us left.” 

‘Why not?’ hangs in the air, but remains unasked. Maybe Jaskier knows somehow that it’s a touchy subject, or maybe it’s something else entirely, but what he asks instead is, “Are they all like you?” 

“What? Motivated by coin? Devoid of emotion?” If Jaskier hasn’t heard those things already, Geralt is sure he will. May as well get out ahead of it and give an answer they can both live with now. 

“Surely you don’t think I _buy_ that,” Jaskier complains around an indignant huff. “Those are just stories humans tell.” 

“How would you know?” 

“I _listen_. I hear them. The less something is like you, the easier it is to justify being cruel or hateful or afraid.” There’s no pity in Jaskier’s tone, but it’s soft and a thread of empathy runs through it. Geralt can’t help but wonder what could have possibly happened in the last two days to draw the fairy to that conclusion, but he never gets the chance to decide whether to ask. Abruptly, Jaskier’s voice takes on a brighter cast. “Besides, neither of those is true, so they can only be stories.” 

“They could be true.” Geralt isn’t sure what possesses him to press back, but the words are out before he really stops to think. 

“I know you think me flighty, but I do notice things. If this were about money, that would have gone very differently with the alderman in the last town.” Jaskier’s eyes seem to scrunch up a little in the dark, betraying a smile Geralt can only barely make out. “And if you didn’t have emotions, you’d still be in that forest.” 

It’s not the first cryptic thing Jaskier has said to him, but it’s strangely precarious, as if Geralt has given away some deeply held secret without even meaning to. The claim hovers just near enough to reasonable that Geralt is helpless but to want to make sense of it. “What makes you say that?” 

“ _Witcher_. I drew you there. Don’t you remember? Doing that, it’s a bit like… like controlling a river. I can change the direction it flows, but I cannot conjure up water from dry earth.” Jaskier’s explanation is heavy with meaning, leaving Geralt feeling raw and bruised. The vulnerability of realizing that Jaskier, who doesn’t even know his name, has seen through him so clearly is unexpectedly overwhelming.

Geralt doesn’t know quite what to say to that, so he deflects under the guise of weariness that’s more true than he expected. Geralt rolls onto his back with a noncommittal hum and closes his eyes, and briefly, there is silence before the fairy whispers, “Hide behind the story if you wish. I won’t force you out of it, but I _do_ know better.”

“Tell me something,” Geralt hears himself say, the words coming of their own accord. It seems suddenly pressing to understand what Jaskier is, though fatigue is creeping in. Or, maybe it only feels fair to demand transparency after the way this conversation has flayed him. “How much of what you said before is real?”

Jaskier’s laugh carries softly, muffled by what Geralt assumes is the fairy’s hand. It soothes a rough edge Geralt didn’t even realize was there, strangely comfortably despite the newness of it all. “Back on the road?”

Geralt hums the affirmative, already drifting. 

“That was the fun of watching you try to guess.” He doesn’t truly expect an answer, or if he does get one, Geralt anticipates it being coy or cryptic. What Jaskier offers up is none of those things. “All of it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi! You can find me [on Tumblr](https://drowningbydegrees.tumblr.com/) or [ this one](https://drowningbydegrees-fanworks.tumblr.com/) if you're only interested in fanworks.  
> Sometimes, I also exist on [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/DrownByDegrees)  
> 


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